Beyond the Veil

Two

TwoDecember 11th, 2012, Lima, Peru

Owen toweled the scattered daubs of shaving cream from his face. He had slept dreamlessly for a change and that he prized. The nightmares of his past rarely left him alone since his son died years ago. He stared at the man in the mirror. A faded scar across his hip peeked over his boxers. It was a gift from a jaguar three years ago during one of his tramps to supply one of the many Manaqüi splinter tribes with weapons against a Brazilian copper conglomerate. Even now, the ragged wound still pained him. The Jadatani medicine man said the great cat had marked him for its own. The recurring visions of the black hunter of the forest only confirmed it.

He ran a tooth brush over his teeth, then stepped into his closet and pulled a pair of khakis from the hanger.

An hour later, he walked up Circuito de Playas under a bright blue sky. He liked walking, the feeling of melting into his surroundings. The smoky aroma of La Patarashca wafted in the air. Salsa melodies floated out from the upper windows.

He grabbed a butifarras from the café and found a bench across the street. As he ate, he listened to the thwapping waves of the shrouded ocean and the cries of sea birds. He thought about the expedition, the long haul up the river into uncertain waters. It had been a long time since he had gone so deep into the bush.

Ten minutes later, he sat in the back seat of a cranky yellow taxi sipping yacón tea from a Styrofoam cup as the driver wove in and around traffic. It had started to rain and tiny drops were pelting his window. The taxi turned left, then right, and motored through the maze of cobblestone streets until at last it came to an old brick building. A sign read, 'sss River Tours' over the door. The driver pulled through an open gate and crossed a rutted gravel lot dotted with puddles.

As the taxi splashed along, Owen eyed the ratty, chain-link fence battling cacti and pink cinchona, wondering where all the money the tour company took in went. He drained the last of his tea and directed the cabbie toward an open overhead door leading into a large corrugated metal-sided warehouse. As the taxi pulled up in front and stopped, Owen dug into his pocket for the agreed-upon fare, handed it to the driver, and got out.

Ducking inside, he was met by his long time tramping partner, Manny Ortava. “Você está atrasado,” he said in Portuguese, wrinkling his leathered, bronzed face. He pulled his work gloves off and dragged a small hand-made cigar from his gaucho's pocket.

Owen shrugged. “Overslept.”

Manny c****d an eyebrow and struck a match. “Good flight?” he said, breaking into English.

Owen tossed his empty cup in the garbage can. “Sucked. How's Loretta?”

“Very good,” Manny said.

“I was plenty worried 'bout her, yeah. What with her pneumonia and all.”

Manny wedged the cigar into the corner of his mouth. “Ah, si, she was very sick, but now is all better. And you?”

“I'm all right. And da crianças?”

Manny smiled. “They are very well.”

“An' Ernesto?”

Manny sighed and put his work gloves back on. “Same. He still has his head in the clouds. All he see is the big money he make at the mine. I keep telling him, go to school; learn something. But he does not hear me. He is more interested in meninas. Oh, well, what can I do?”

Owen shrugged. “Not much, I expect. Lads 'ill be lads. They like their chicas fast an' furious.”

“Like a certain Kiwi I know,” Manny said, then shut his mouth when he saw Jack Burgess coming toward them. He shot Owen a knowing glance, furrowed his brow and walked away as the boss walked up.

“Hey, you ready for this?” Jack said, nodding toward the pile of gear on the warehouse floor. Translated: 'Don't f**k this gig up'.

Owen pulled a chocolate bar from his shirt pocket, tore the wrapper off. Biting into it, he narrowed his gaze on the man. “Morning, Jack. How's tricks?” Translated back: 'Kiss my ass'.

“Cut the shite,” Jack snarled.

They faced off like a pair of tomcats: Owen in his tan khakis, a faded T-shirt and frumpy jandals against the wiry Kiwi's three-piece suit and leather loafers. Jack pointed to the pile of canvas bags on the pallet. “You really need all this shite?”

Owen took another bite of his candy bar, looked off into the shadowed warehouse. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Jack didn't say anything for a moment but Owen knew the man resented him. Most likely, it was because of the respect and camaraderie he enjoyed with co-workers and patrons alike. Finally, Jack said, “You know, I don't see what my pop ever saw in you.”

“Well, ya not your pop, are ya?” Owen said. He stared back at the man, waiting for him to pick a fight - not that Jack would against a man head and shoulders taller than himself.

“No, I'm not,” Jack growled and tightened his jaw. “But I run this show, if you follow me,”

“Yeah, I think I do,” Owen replied in a level tone. “'Cept I bring da business in, mate.”

Jack bristled. “Is that what you think?”

“It's what I know,” Owen said, and after he said it, realized how angry he really felt. But the anger went beyond Jack to something he couldn't put his finger on. He took a deep breath. “Look, just leave it alone, okay?”

Jack reached into his pocket and pulled a pack of cigarettes out. “You know what your problem is?”

“No, what's that?” Owen said, looking toward the rear of the warehouse. Owen heard the lighter click, then the sound of a long exhale.

“You're an arrogant son-of-a-b***h who probably hasn't been banged in a month of Sundays.”

Owen almost broke out laughing. “Yeah, yeah, Jack. I'm sure a nice piece would straighten me right out. Now if ya don't mind, I've got work ta do, eh?”

“Yeah. And, mate…”

“What's that?” Owen said.

Jack butted his cigarette under his shoe. “Try to keep your paws off that pretty college professor. Your wit falls flat on its arse with the highly educated.” He turned and as he walked away, Owen flipped him the middle finger.

December 12th, 2012, San Francisco

Claire threw the rest of her salad together for dinner, thinking about what Noah had said. Why had he divulged the secret of his brother's death now, unless he still cared about her? She shook her head, turned up Alanis Morissette's, You Ought'a Know on the CD player and took a sip of her wine.

Since Jason left, Alanis's hard driving lyrics had become Claire's mantra. But things were looking up now. Soon, she would be heading down to the sss, and if everything worked out the way she hoped, she would be on top of the world. She eyed the framed photo of the gray wolf her aunt her given her upon completing her thesis defense and danced into the dining room with plate in hand.

Sitting down at the table, she nibbled at her salad while sifting through her mail. “What's this?” she muttered, picking up a small, white envelope. Her eyes zeroed in on the return address. “Jason?”

Her heart pounded as she looked at it. Easy Claire. Remember, he's the one who walked out, not you. She took a deep breath and ran a fingernail under the flap, prying it away. When she saw her townhouse key, she was furious.

“You son-of-a-b***h! You asshole!” she shouted. She poked inside to see if there was a note and found nothing: no good-bye, no 'sorry things didn't work out'. The end of their five-year relationship reduced to nothing but a returned key.

She held it up in front of her, and felt her throat tighten. “Fucker!” she muttered, feeling like a deleted paragraph in one of his shitty editorials. She clenched her jaw and ripped the envelope in half, then again and again until it was in tiny pieces on the floor.